


Late Melt

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, felix-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: Something inside of Felix froze over a long time ago, and he knows now — with the war behind him, with a new title on his back, with a watchful gaze over a King who is sometimes a beast and sometimes a man — that he will never thaw.-Felix returns to Fraldarius Manor during the Pegasus Moon. Dimitri follows.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 13
Kudos: 173





	Late Melt

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic contains descriptions of PTSD (Felix) and hallucinations (Dimitri).

An old Faerghus adage goes: 

_Pegasus, Moon of despair,  
Our undoing falls down upon us white_

It stems from times of old, when the Pegasus Moon’s unrelenting cold would claim Faerghus lands, when only famine could be grown, and when a mere draft could mean catching your death. 

Felix was born under the Pegasus Moon, and though he has never been superstitious in the least, even he has to admit that his moon of birth is befitting. Something inside of him froze over a long time ago, and he knows now — with the war behind him, with a new title on his back, with a watchful gaze over a King who is sometimes a beast and sometimes a man — that he will never thaw. 

He thinks of this in the warmer months, when Dedue passes out plants like favors and explains the significance of each one. When he holds one out to Felix, he promises it will be easy to grow, easy to maintain, a plant that symbolizes strength of spirit, of the will to fight. 

Felix shoves back Dedue’s hand. Were Dedue a less sturdy man, the plant would surely tumble to the ground, but in his grip, it does not falter. “What makes you think I want that?” he asks. 

“It is a gift,” Dedue explains. “It reminded me of —” 

“It’s useless,” Felix bites back before he can finish his sentence. “Get it out of my face.” 

Dedue frowns, but remains steady as ever. He does not reach out again. 

When Felix storms away, he thinks about the stupidity of such a gift. He is only good for killing — not for keeping things alive. His touch lacks warmth, even now, even in summer. 

Days later, Felix sees the plant in Dimitri’s room, next to the one Dedue specifically chose for the King. It is, somehow, thriving. 

The thought makes Felix vaguely sick. 

* * *

After the war, Felix returns to the Fraldarius Manor regularly, because he didn’t relinquish his title as he always thought he would, because even with his new responsibilities, someone needs to maintain the Fraldarius lands. 

He feels like one of Dimitri’s ghosts every time he walks through his halls, staring at paintings of the dead, the furnishings he has not changed, the way a teacup still sits on an end table, stained and molded over, untouched. He walks from room to room with his hand on the hilt of his sword and thinks about how he doesn’t belong here. This was never a place for him. 

He wakes in his old bedroom night after night and believes himself still to be fighting, those immediate moments of awakening finding him with a dagger in hand, waving at the darkness, threatening no one. 

He trains every day as though he is back at the Academy, as though it is still all he has. (And isn’t it? Isn’t it?) 

He considers giving up his title, abandoning Dimitri as he was always meant to do, turning his back on Sylvain, refusing to see Ingrid. He dreams about running off to be a mercenary, to do the only thing his mind and body have ever accepted of him, the only thing for which he yearns. 

He knows he will never be happy if he does not fight again. 

He knows he will never be happy if he does fight again. 

Felix is cold, hollow, and angry. Nothing can grow inside. 

Yet he always returns to his King. 

* * *

The year following the end of the war, Felix has to go to his territory during the Pegasus Moon, the worst moon for travel and for his mood. He does so without a face-to-face parting to Dimitri, merely leaves curt word with his staff about needing to check stores, compile reports, and be a Duke for a time. 

The trip is as unforgiving as the manor itself, cold and difficult for his horse, worse so for the few staff members who accompany him. They complain every step of the way, and Felix thinks about threatening them, considers pulling his sword and fighting in the frigid temperatures, if only to get them to shut up. In the end, however, they arrive without incident, and Felix once again is confined to the walls he hates so much, forced to listen to the echoes of his footsteps in abandoned halls. 

He does his work. He compiles his reports. He trains outdoors, even when he can see his breath, even as the sweat freezes on his skin. 

One week goes by. Then another. His return is overdue, but he feels rooted to this spot, as though the manor will swallow him whole and leave nothing behind but his broken intentions. 

On the cusp of the third week, the King arrives unexpectedly. He travels lightly, with only a few knights at his side. 

Felix, unprepared, is interrupted in the middle of his dinner and has to run out to the gates without a cloak or boots appropriate for the weather. 

“What are you doing here?” he demands to know as Dimitri urges his horse inside. “You didn’t send word.” 

“I apologize for that,” Dimitri tells him, frowning when he takes in Felix’s appearance, the way he shivers in the wind. “I did not wish to surprise you, but I thought riding out here myself would be quicker than trying to send a messenger in this weather.” 

Felix will not huddle into himself. He will not try to warm his hands, his arms, his heart. “What is the King doing in Fraldarius territory?” he presses. 

“Can we discuss this inside?” Dimitri asks as he dismounts. Felix is ready to snap at him for calling him out on being cold and vulnerable, but Dimitri says instead, “I am weary from traveling.” 

So Felix bites his tongue and turns on his heel as Dimitri hands off his mount and follows him inside. His staff move to assist the knights. 

“I am unprepared for your visit,” Felix tells him, all scorn. “No chamber has been prepared for your arrival, but you can sleep in my father’s bedroom. I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted.” 

“Felix.” He doesn’t turn to look at the expression he imagines must be on Dimitri’s face: the frown, the slight hint of pain. 

“Our food stores are low, so don’t expect a feast befitting a King either,” Felix continues as they head inside to the warmth. 

“Felix,” Dimitri says again, more strained this time, like he’s trying to reach through a wall laden with traps. 

“ _What?_ ” Felix asks, and only now, at an appropriate level of anger, does he spin around to glare at Dimitri. Undoubtedly, the effect is lessened by how he still shivers, his body quivering despite his attempts to keep it still. 

“I am not here as your King,” Dimitri tells him mournfully. “I am here as your friend. I was concerned that you did not return. I —” All the mounting experience of ruling a nation, and Dimitri still cannot keep the lapse of confidence out of his tone — not when he faces Felix. “I did not wish you to be alone these next few days.” 

“Being alone is better than being with you,” Felix tells him, inexplicably enraged at him, enraged at everything. He hates these halls, he hates this land, and he hates this King, for keeping him rooted, planted, _stuck_. 

Dimitri sighs. “I expected you would say as much,” he admits. “But Sylvain is preparing to head to Sreng and Ingrid is needed in her territory. That leaves me.” 

“You’re a King,” Felix reminds him. “You can’t go running around as you please.” 

“I am fairly certain,” Dimitri tells him, “that of all people, the King is entitled to do that much.” 

“As your advisor,” Felix spits out, the words acidic on his tongue, “I’m telling you that leaving your responsibilities behind is moronic.” 

“It’s only for a few days,” Dimitri tells him. Then, with some hesitancy, he adds, “I have been in my right mind, if that is what concerns you. I have been doing quite well, actually.” 

“Have you?” Felix asks sarcastically, disbelievingly, angrily, because he himself hasn’t been doing _quite well_ , and the idea of Dimitri being the better of them, the less animalistic, disturbs him to his core. 

“I will go to my room now, if that’s okay,” Dimitri deflects. 

“You’re the King,” Felix tells him. “Do as you please.” 

He leaves him in the entryway. 

* * *

Over the past year, Felix has grown to understand Dimitri in ways he hadn’t before. He has learned to anticipate his shifting moods, to tolerate the way his energy flags, to buffer his struggles in ruling and his challenges in presiding over council meetings. He has begun to learn to curb his tongue during important moments, to tone down his anger. He has made progress. 

Having Dimitri here, in this manor, changes everything. Felix feels as though he’s been thrown back into his own self, regressed to a point where he can barely look at him again. Worst of all, it isn’t because of what he sees in Dimitri, but rather, what he sees of himself when Dimitri looks at him. 

“I noticed,” Dimitri begins over lunch the following morning, “this place looks very much the same as when we were children.” 

“What of it?” Felix asks in between mouthfuls, looking anywhere except at Dimitri. 

“Wouldn’t you like to make a few changes?” 

“Why?” Felix asks, “when I’m giving up these lands the first chance I get?” 

“Oh,” Dimitri murmurs. “I did not realize that was still your plan.” 

“Nothing has changed,” Felix tells him. “Nothing at all.” 

“Felix,” Dimitri breathes, reaching forward, as though to take his hand. Felix sits back quickly, pulls his hand as far away as possible. “That isn’t true.” 

“You’re still a boar,” Felix tells him, because that’s what he wants to believe, because he can’t accept that Dimitri has somehow grown, that he is more in control, that the world is shifting somewhere better, healthier, and leaving him behind. “And I’m still —” 

“What?” Dimitri asks when he cuts himself off, his voice sounding so sad, it makes Felix angrier. “You’re still what, Felix?” 

“Nothing,” Felix tells him, and stands. “I’m going to train.” 

He leaves Dimitri there, alone, the staff staring after him in surprise at the level of disrespect that Felix has given their King. Felix goes and he trains until his arms refuse to lift his sword any long, and then he forces himself to train a little more for good measure. After, he avoids dinner and all common areas where he might find Dimitri lying in wait. He returns to his room and shuts himself away and tries to think about anything except Dimitri. 

Only, Dimitri affords him no break. He knocks lightly on the door late into the evening, and Felix has no choice but to answer, because where else would he be? 

In Dimitri’s hands are two dishes. “Please, eat something,” he says. 

Felix thinks about shutting the door on him, into retreating further. He almost does it. 

But he’s hungry, sore, and tired, too tired to maintain his normal level of anger, so he steps aside and Dimitri enters. He sets the dishes down on Felix’s old desk, which still holds scribbles of correspondence that Felix wrote early on during the war. 

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri tells him, turning his full attention on Felix again. 

“For what?” Felix asks him, folding his arms. 

“For earlier. I know...” Dimitri takes a breath. “I know I don’t say the right things.” 

“I already expect that from you,” Felix replies, relaxing a little. “It’s nothing new.” 

“I only wish to keep you company these next few days,” Dimitri tells him. “Can we eat together?” 

“Fine,” Felix replies. 

They eat together in his room, seated on his bed. They talk about neutral topics, mostly about Dimitri’s responsibilities and what Felix has missed these past two weeks, and steer clear of reliving memories. 

* * *

That night, Felix wakes up in mid-fight, as he often does these days, brandishing his dagger at shadows. His heart is beating far too quickly to settle back into sleep, so he leaves the room to wander the halls. He allows his feet to carry him without putting much mind to them, and before long, he finds himself in front of his father’s old room, where Dimitri rests. 

He considers knocking. He thinks about walking in unannounced. He wants to exercise his power as the one person in the country who would walk into the King’s room without being invited, without so much as a word of warning. 

He reaches a hand out, and wills himself to do it. 

Dimitri opens the door before he can. Yet again, Dimitri takes from him. 

“What?” Felix asks, even though he’s standing in the hall, hand out, reaching for something that he will never grasp. 

“I am having trouble sleeping,” Dimitri tells him, as though he owes Felix an explanation. (And doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?) 

“I’m not your nursemaid,” Felix tells him, and pushes past him into the room. 

“I did not say you were,” Dimitri replies softly, shutting the door. 

They’ve done this before: mere steps apart, waiting for the other (for Felix, always waiting for Felix) to make the first move. 

If someone were to ask Felix what it is like to touch a King — really touch him, lip-to-lip, hand-to-chest — he would say it’s nothing special, it’s like kissing anyone, touching anyone, it’s like grinding against a man who might, before your very eyes, turn into a beast, but aren’t we all capable of turning? Is that not where Felix is right now, in this moment, as he fists the fabric of Dimitri’s nightshirt and pulls him close? 

(But here’s a fact, cold and hard, just like Felix: he has never kissed anyone who isn’t Dimitri at his best and Dimitri at his worst; he has never kissed anyone who did not grow to be his King; he has never kissed a man who did not harbor a beast inside.) 

“I missed this,” Dimitri breathes when Felix pulls back to glare at him. He reaches forward and touches Felix’s cheek so tenderly, that Felix can feel both the heat of arousal and the fire of rage mingle within him. 

“Do that again,” he whispers, a threat and a plead all at once; he wants to feel hatred and anger; he wants to remember everything he seems to forget when Dimitri looks at him with his one eye, really looks at him, like he can see all of Felix, even the parts he tried to kill and leave behind. 

“I will touch all of you,” Dimitri promises, “if you will allow it.” 

“I won’t,” Felix tells him, even as he kisses Dimitri again, allows his hands to roam, bucks against him like he has no pride. 

(Once, after, Dimitri running his hands through Felix’s hair while Felix stared at the ceiling and wondered why, when it comes to Dimitri, he never has self-control, Dimitri had said to him, “I know it helps if you have someone to hate. I am happy to be that someone for you.” 

And that’s what Felix felt in that moment: hate. Warm, spreading, uncomfortable hate that made his heart skip a beat, his stomach twist in knots, every time he remembered those words.) 

“Fight me for it,” Felix demands. 

“You will lose,” Dimitri tells him. 

Felix steps back and readies himself. “Fight me,” he repeats. 

(Felix loses, and his punishment is Dimitri being gentle, so gentle, and whispering to him as though he is something precious, and when Felix’s eyes sting in the aftermath, it’s because he’s angry, so angry.) 

* * *

“Let’s do something nice tomorrow,” Dimitri says the following day, the day before Felix turns too-young for how he feels, but too-old for the way he still cannot parse himself. 

“There’s nothing to do,” Felix reminds him. Not here, in these halls, and not together. 

“We can go for a walk,” Dimitri suggests. “And then we can spar.” 

“Fine,” Felix says, and he doesn’t feel soft or warm, he only feels annoyance, resistance, even as he agrees. 

* * *

The morning of his birthday, Dimitri is nowhere to be found. 

Felix is dressed for an idiotic walk in sub-freezing temperatures and sweating as a result as he walks from room to room, looking for a King who should be impossible to lose. None of the staff have seen him, he isn’t in his room. Felix searches, until he finds him in the one room neither of them should be, a room that should remained locked forever. 

Dimitri sits in Glenn’s room, on Glenn’s bed, and Felix hates him for it. 

“Of course,” he says. 

Dimitri flinches. 

He sees it, then: the faraway look in Dimitri’s eyes, the subtle movement of his lips, the way he looks up at Felix without really seeing him. 

“I thought you said you were in your right mind,” Felix says. 

Dimitri responds slowly. “I was.” Two broken, hopeless words. Then again: “I was.” 

Felix has learned a few tricks over the last year. He has learned how to count to ten, how to make his hands into fists so that his nails dig into his palms. He has learned to bite his tongue until it hurts and to swallow the first words to enter his mind. 

This is how it goes: 

_It was only a matter of time._ “Okay.” 

_I can’t stand to look at you this way._ Step forward. 

_Boar._ Sit next to him. 

_Beast._ Take his hand. 

_I hate you._ “It’s okay.” 

(Because this is what Felix decided, months ago, when Dimitri offered himself up to be hated: if Dimitri will accept his scorn, will martyr himself so Felix can feel like himself again, then Felix will offer himself up to be loved, will martyr himself so Dimitri can feel like himself again.) 

Dimitri squeezes his hand, too hard, as he looks away, at the corner, at a ghost that Felix feels he knows. “I wanted today to be special,” he eventually says. 

Felix can’t say the words that form in his mind. They lodge in his throat, get stuck there, make him swallow dryly. But he hopes that Dimitri understands what he means when he leans against him and squeezes his hand back. 

Because Dimitri is here, always here, even when Felix pushes him away, even when Felix hops on a horse and leaves the castle behind; even now, suffering as Dimitri is, he is still thinking of Felix. Dimitri is here for him, and though Felix will never be able to say it, it’s the only thing he wants, the only thing he has ever wanted, even back then — even before. 

Felix holds Dimitri as best he can. Dimitri speaks three words that Felix will pretend he never heard. 

Felix says his name. 

(And it’s enough. It’s enough.) 

* * *

When they leave the manor behind, they leave together. 

If this were a story, it would end with Dimitri in his right mind, having found the will to fight off his ghosts. It would end with Felix finding a new sense of purpose, cleaning the manor, and heading back to the castle with his head held high. They would kiss with passion before they depart, healed and ready to face a new morning. 

This isn’t a story. 

Dimitri isn’t in his right mind. He mumbles at ghosts. He yells at voices. He loses time. 

Felix is still frozen inside. He is still suspended without purchase, yearning for and yet dreading the next fight. He still thinks about absconding. 

The teacup still sits on the end table, stained and molded over, untouched. 

But they leave together, side by side. 

When Dimitri, in a moment of clarity, leans in his saddle to reach out to Felix, Felix allows his hand to be grasped. “It’s okay,” Dimitri tells him. “We’ll keep going.” 

“That’s what we’re doing,” Felix replies flatly. (But he’s right. He’s right.) 

As Dimitri tries to pull his hand back, Felix grasps it a little harder — he holds it a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> The old Faerghus adage is an adapted hybrid of two lines from two poems: "February" by Margaret Atwood and "Should Our Undoing Come Down Upon Us White" by Jill Osier.


End file.
